


No Need To Be Pissed To Do the Mambo

by Lenore



Category: RocknRolla (2008)
Genre: Future Fic, M/M, Missing Scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-24
Updated: 2010-12-24
Packaged: 2017-10-14 02:10:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,554
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/144188
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lenore/pseuds/Lenore
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bob takes to calling it their anniversary.</p>
            </blockquote>





	No Need To Be Pissed To Do the Mambo

**Author's Note:**

  * For [morphosyntactic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/morphosyntactic/gifts).
  * Translation into 中文 available: [曼舞何须醉](https://archiveofourown.org/works/596058) by [styx](https://archiveofourown.org/users/styx/pseuds/styx)



> Much gratitude to elethe and oxoniensis for beta reading!

Bob takes to calling it their anniversary despite all the many signs One Two gives him—from stern looks to "Shut up!" to a slap to the back of the head—that he's not nearly as funny as he thinks he is.

"Shall we go out then?" Bob asks, sprawled in a chair, looking satisfied with himself after cleaning out Cookie and the other chaps in four hands of poker. "Celebrate a bit?"

"Celebrate what?" One Two shoots back, with a quick glance around the place to make sure no one's listening. "That you're a dirty bastard?"

"Are you saying there's nothing to be glad about that I'm not locked away in an eight-by-ten?" A hint of hurt flashes in Bob's eyes, there one second and gone the next. This is probably just Handsome Bob at work, a bloody thespian who could convince almost anyone of almost anything. Or—it could be fucking sincere, and the fact is: One Two is very fucking glad that Bob's not whittling down the days of a five stretch, even if he has no plans to admit this out loud to Bob or anyone else.

He lets out a sigh.

Bob's mouth curves into a quick smile. It's quite possible he's having a good laugh at One Two's expense. "Pick me up at ten," Bob tells him. "Don't be late."

 

One Two arrives precisely on the dot, but only because he's cursed with punctuality, not because he's following orders. Bob's waiting on the pavement outside his flat, looking amused, dressed in jeans and an untucked shirt, the same thing he wears pretty much every day. One Two doesn't know what he was expecting: spangles? makeup? glitter? Apart from wanting to slow dance—and, well, _do other things_ with One Two—Bob's about the least likely poof he can imagine.

Bob slips into the passenger side and tells One Two where they're going, a different club from last time. One Two drives, and Bob looks idly out of the window. He doesn't seem to mind that it's gone quiet, while One Two minds it very fucking much.

"So, Bob," he says, with a sidelong glance. "I heard you—Tuesday night, was it anyone—Mumbles said—" He lets out his breath. This was so much easier when Bob had girlfriends.

Bob raises an eyebrow. "Are you asking me if I'm seeing anyone, One Two?"

"No! Well. Yes. But not because—" One Two sputters helplessly.

He darts another glance over, and Bob is wearing a big grin, bloody well enjoying himself. "It was only Bertie."

One Two frowns. "You still—with him?"

Bob leans closer, and his voice slips lower. "Only when I'm in the mood for a bit of rough and tumble. You wouldn't believe what solicitors get up to." He manages to keep a straight face just long enough to put pictures into One Two's head that will not be going anywhere any time soon before he breaks into laughter.

"That's not funny, Bob!"

Especially not when the part of One Two that picks at scabs and stares at motor accidents is tempted to fish for details.

The floor at the club is packed deep with poofs dancing slow and close, hips working to the tease of the music. One Two looks around—not nervously, because it's going to take more than a club full of gays to make him nervous—but like a man profoundly out of place.

"Fancy a drink?" Bob asks.

One Two glares. "I don't need you to get me pissed before I can do the mambo."

Bob smiles softly and says into One Two's ear, "That's not what I asked."

The truth is that a few whiskeys do help. The warmth uncurls in One Two's stomach, spreads down his back, into his limbs. It gives him something to blame when Bob takes his hand, hangs on insistently as One Two tries to yank it away, and leads him out on the dance floor. Bob presses against him, and heat sinks into One Two at every point of contact. Purely the whiskey's doing.

One Two leads because that's bloody well the way this is going to go. He can feel the strength in Bob's arms, his shoulders, not the way dancing usually feels, but it's Bob, so One Two can't say it's not familiar. Bob's hands move over One Two's back, and One Two keeps expecting them to wander, but they don't. He and Bob—it's just dancing.

Of course that was how it started the last time too. Snatches of memory, actual sensation, stir up from the place at the back of One Two's brain where he put things he doesn't want to think about. The most unbelievable part of all: he was the one who'd fucking started it.

That night, when he'd thought Bob was going away for five long years, it had been impossible not to think about the two spot he'd done. How nothing felt like it belonged to you when the cell door shut behind you, not even your own skin. How when you touched yourself, or when you were desperate enough to find someone else to touch you, there was nothing in it, not even if you managed to get off.

So when Bob had asked, "Come up and have a drink?" One Two had gone, and when the door to Bob's flat had shut behind them, he'd said Bob's name. Then he'd pushed Bob up against the wall and got his jeans open and got a hand on him before he could lose his nerve. Five years was a fucking long time not to belong in your own skin, and Bob was his best fucking mate.

A dick. Just a dick. That was what he'd told himself. Like he'd touched himself a million times before. Only, of course, it was Handsome Bob's dick, said a voice in his head, and he promptly told that voice to shut up. Bob's eyes drifted half closed, and he wet his mouth with this tongue. His gorgeous mouth, that voice piped up again, and One Two bit the inside of his cheek to have something else to think about. Broken little sounds spilled out of Bob, like he couldn't help himself, and when he came in One Two's hand, he sounded startled and almost hurt.

One Two meant to back away then, mumble something, anything, and get the hell out of there. But Bob hooked a hand behind his neck and pulled him in, and there was that fucking gorgeous mouth, soft and warm and nothing like kissing a woman.

"Come here."

 _I have to go_. That was what One Two meant to say, but utter silence was what actually came out of him. He let Bob lead him over to the sofa and push him back against the cushions and unzip his trousers and take out his dick and stare as he touched it.

"One Two."

The words seemed pulled from the back of Bob's throat, a rough sound, half strangled, and that made it suddenly real. One Two shot out his hand and gripped Bob's wrist, and he could have made Bob stop. Could have. But he just closed his eyes, panting heavily, while Bob finished him off.

When he opened his eyes again, he was treated to one of Bob's cheeky smiles. "Ready for that drink then?"

That was a year ago. This, here, now—this is just dancing. Just dancing, One Two insists to himself. It's over before he can get well and truly sick of it, unlike the last time, which gives One Two the horrifying notion that he might be getting used to it.

Bob lets out a soft, satisfied sound when he pulls away. "Now that was what I call a proper celebration. Come on then."

He leads One Two back across the club, out of the door and down the street to the car. There's no telling what Bob thinks is going to happen next, but One Two _knows_. Nothing. That's what.

This doesn't keep him from sneaking glances out of the side of his eye as he drives. Bob drums his fingers on the dashboard, and One Two watches his hands, the same hands that have— Bob fiddles with the radio, and his mouth quirks up when he finds a song he likes. His mouth, that One Two has, on occasion, imagined, because a mouth like that, who wouldn't—

He's sweating by the time they stop outside Bob's flat. There's a moment when no one says anything, and then Bob leans in, his voice going low and filthy. "Come in for a drink, yeah?"

 _I'm not gay_. That's what One Two should say. It's the bloody truth. But that mouth. And this isn't just any—it's Bob.

"If you could only see your face," Bob's shoulders shake as he laughs.

"Not funny, Bob!"

"Actually, it really rather is."

One Two glares, not that this has ever had much of an effect on Bob.

As evidence of this, Bob leans over and brushes a kiss to One Two's cheek. "Happy anniversary, One Two."

He's still smiling as he lets himself into his flat, and maybe One Two is smiling a wee bit himself as he drives off, although he'll never admit this to anyone.


End file.
